


the greatest thing that the world has ever seen

by paranoid_mandroid



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Getting Back Together, Look I love Zimbits as much as the next reader, M/M, Past Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, and this is one of those universes, drama actually works out, friends-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers, there are just some universes where Jack and Kent's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-07 18:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19474441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_mandroid/pseuds/paranoid_mandroid
Summary: "You and me."





	the greatest thing that the world has ever seen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neversleepingagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversleepingagain/gifts).



> Started writing, had a breakdown, bon appétit.

“This has to be the worst idea we’ve ever had, Kenny.” 

Kent looked away from the thin lengths of wire he was jamming into the locked door and raised an eyebrow at Jack. 

“Really? You’re going to say that shit with a straight face? You do remember that party at Hutch’s place, right?”

Readjusting the hockey bag on his shoulder, Jack huffed out a small laugh. The yellow streetlight cast shadows across his face. Sharp bone structure was beginning to emerge from the layer of baby fat, but Kent could still recognise the softness in his cheeks from the first time he saw Jack practicing his slapshots onthe other side of the ice. It had been Kent’s first practice on the team and he had to actively fight puking on his new Rimouski Océanic jersey, up until the first time he was trialled on Jack’s line and all nerves had melted away like spring snow. 

“Yeah yeah, whatever. It was a tough shot, and besides, we replaced the drywall the next day.” Jack leaned in closer to where Kent was struggling to pick the rinks lock. “How do you even know how to do this, anyway?” 

Kent poked the tip of his tongue out the side of his mouth as he turned back to his work. 

“Not everyone grew up fucking Canadian royalty, Zimms. You don’t know the what it’s like in the real world, fighting every day to survive, no rules but the law of the concrete fucking jungle-” 

Jack cuffed the back of Kent’s head, too used to his best friends bullshit to fall for the obvious jab. In reality a younger Kent had been driven to boredom one summer without hockey and so had gone on a YouTube rabbit hole which included the basics of lock picking, but it was second nature for Kent to chirp Jack, as natural as breathing or rushing down the ice. At the start of their friendship it had caused some issues with Jack too used to people giving him shit for things he couldn’t control and Kent throwing out verbal digs as if it would distract people from noticing his scrawny frame. A season and a half later and the pair were too comfortable with each other to get caught out by each other's idiosyncrasies. 

“Cut it out man I’m almost done.” With one last twist of the makeshift pick rake the lock clicked and Kent was able to push open the heavy door. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at his friend. 

“I still think this is stupid.” Jack pushed passed where Kent was kneeling and took off down the hallway they both knew so well. From behind he almost looked like the prodigy that every hockey reporter and their mother expected him to be, an easy illusion to pull off when you couldn’t make out the extra bulk around his middle that no bag skate had been able to remove or wavering smile that belied the nerves constantly battling for space in his head.

Kent shook his head, like a dog shaking off water, and jumped up to follow his friend into the bowels of the rink. He was always watching his liney for too long when given the opportunity, a bad habit that he was actively trying to break. 

“No respect for my mad skills! Just like on the ice, hey Zimms, fucking cherry picker.” 

The pair jostled all the way to the dressing room, each trying to trip the other while coming up with worse chirps. Once there they chucked their gear bags carelessly into their respective stalls, right next to each other where they had been ever since near the start of their first season when Kent had managed to piss of his stall mate enough with his constant chatter resulting in a swap to next to Jack. No one had figured out that this was a manoeuvre specifically so that Kent could be closer to the dark-haired forward, and if he got his way no one would ever find out. The fact that his shitty game day jokes when they were pulling on their skates were the only things able to stop Jack’s hands from shaking helped Kent to convince himself he had no ulterior motives for wanting to be so close. 

“Yo Zimms, got any spare laces? Forgot mine snapped last practice.” 

“How do you even manage that? Going for the record of most sets in a season, eh?” Jack hands them over even as he’s chirping Kent. He had been keeping a stash of replacement laces in the front pocket of his bag for a while now, a mirror to Kent’s collection of the blue tape which Jack favours on his stick. 

The chirps faded away as the boys finished readying themselves and headed for the rink. One, two. As per their game day ritual Kent stepped onto the ice first, making easy loops as Jack followed. It seemed, at this moment, that this pattern would always continue. Where one boy went the other would follow. Already Kent had accepted an invitation to stay at the Zimmermans’ place over summer, so even the end of the hockey season wouldn’t see them parted. 

“One-timers?” Jack called out, already herding the pucks he had brought onto the ice towards the center line. 

Kent grinned. The Zimmerman-Parson no-look one-timer was a curse on all teams not wearing Rimouski blue and white. Most who saw it put it down to a combination of pure skill and line chemistry. But other players, other duo’s, had both of those things. An outside spectator couldn’t even guess at the early mornings where Jack picked Kent up from his billet house in his shitty truck, thrusting a thermos of coffee into his hands before Kent even had a chance to speak. The countless hours spent after practices perfecting it when all their teammates had gone home. The amount of times rink management had screamed at them to get off the ice because there was a group of ten-year-old figure skaters impatient to get on the ice. 

The no-look one-timer only worked because each player knew where the other would be. Because they knew each other. 

Skate blades carving through the ice. The dull clack of a puck passed seamlessly from tape to tape. Bright ting of a puck going top shelf. The soundtrack of the rink was as regular as a metronome, echoing loudly in the large barn.

Despite Kent’s earlier insinuations the two did rotate who was dishing and who was scoring. While Jack may score more in games whereas Kent fed him a steady stream of assists, part of what made the pair so deadly on the ice was their versatility. 

The silence when they’d depleted their pile of pucks was jarring, broken only by their panting as they regained their breath and the faint hum of the fluorescents overhead. 

Kent lent against his stick, bowed over, and watched Jack fish pucks out of the net. Sweat plastered ringlets of black hair to the back of his neck where they poked out from under his helmet. Kent knew he shouldn’t be looking. A better person would busy themselves by getting a drink or help Jack with the pucks. Better yet, they wouldn’t even need to distract themselves from staring at the clean lines of their unaware best friend. 

Kent knew he needed to be better. He didn’t look away. 

Jack finished up with the pucks and sent the last one flying towards Kent with a brutal saucer. Kent jerked out of his daze and brought his stick up in time to stop the puck from hitting him. He juggled it, deking around several imaginary defensemen on a course towards the goal before flicking it to Jack in the last moment. Jack batted it into the goal from mid-air. 

“Whoo! That's what I’m fucking talking about! Parse and Zimms all day, baby!” Kent threw his stick to the side and launched himself at Jack with widespread arms. The air is punched out of his lungs by the force of the collision. Jack buried his soft chuckles into the shoulder of Kent’s jersey, humouring his line mate's overdone jubilation. They spun slowly in place, each rotation marking a moment where they should’ve let go. 

Neither let go. 

Jack pulls back only far enough to clack the cages of their helmets together, not relinquishing his hold. Kent’s eyes tracked all over Jack’s face, noting the slightly downward sloping, pale blue eyes. The strong slope of his nose. The tiny scar to the right of his upper lip that you have to squint to see where he’d run into a glass screen door as a child, which he still tells people came from a stray high stick. 

“Zimms?” Kent swallows. 

“Do you think we can do it?” Jack elaborated after Kent made a confused noise. “The Memmer, Kenny. The Memorial cup and then the league and then-” 

“Yeah Zimms. I fucking know we will. You and me? Whose gonna stop us.” 

Jack reached to the side of Kent’s head and undid his helmet, letting it clatter onto the ice. He ran a thumb over the sharp line of Kent’s jaw. 

“Tell me again, Kenny.” 

Kent was breathing heavy, blood running hot under his skin. He intertwined the fingers of one hand into Jack’s cage, willing it away. 

“You and me Zimms. First the Memmer then the world.” 

He moved slowly, as if to give Jack time to jerk away, and undid the clasp to his helmet. 

Waited a breath. 

Kent slip of Jack’s helmet and held it in his right hand. His left was curled into the taller boy’s jersey. 

“Jack?” 

“Me and you.” Jack said, before rushing forwards and kissing Kent. Their teeth clacked and Jack’s nose almost took out Kent’s eye but after a moment they slowed down and melted into the kiss. Kent realised he was still holding Jack’s helmet and dropped it, pulling his hand up to tangle in Jack’s thick hair. Jack cupped Kent’s face and sucked on his bottom lip, drawing out a moan. 

Standing on the ice, alone except for the only other person who mattered, harsh rink light reflecting off the ice, Kent Parson and Jack Zimmerman were invincible. Just for a moment. 

And then they grew up. 

* * *

Kent found out about the pills in their second and final season playing for Rimouski. 

Jack’s billet family had gone up north to visit an ailing grandmother, and so the pair had the house to themselves for a couple of weekdays. Kent was slumped over Jack, head on his shoulder, as they lay in bed watching a Habs game on Jack’s laptop. 

Rimouski had secured three losses in a row for the first time that season their previous game, and the coaches didn’t let the team forget it with a brutal bagskate that afternoon. As captain and alternate it was Jack and Kent’s job to lead by example, so now Kent’s legs were still burning faintly. His eyes had sunken to half-mast with Jack’s warmth making him drowsy, but he was determined to stay up until Jack was ready for bed. It wasn’t often that they had a house to themselves, after all. 

“No matter how much you stare at Price, it won’t stop Stoney from leaving a gap short side.” 

Jack grunted instead of replying, but he did shift Kent’s head down to his lap so he could card fingers through his blonde cowlicks. Kent hummed in satisfaction and closed his eyes, tuning everything out that wasn’t Jack’s fingernails lightly scraping against his skull. 

Kent had just dozed off when Jack drew in a huge breath and suddenly went rigid under him, fingers tightening in Kent’s hair before pulling away to Jack’s side. Kent opened one eye to try and see what was wrong with his best friend. 

“Zimms?” 

No response. Jack was frozen, staring at the broadcast. They were showing replays of a fight while workers were getting a net back on its moorings in the scrum’s aftermath. The commentators’ back and forth was tinny yet clear through the laptop speakers. 

_“You’re right, I don’t think anyone will ever be able to see a player scrapping in Montréal red without thinking of Bad Bob. He was in a league of his own, eh?”_

_“He sure was Mike. I’m struggling to think of another player who was both as skilled and tough as Bad Bob on the ice. I mean, no one can say Gretzky isn’t the greatest player to ever live, but McSorley had a contract for a reason.”_

Kent couldn’t even guess at what it was like to have your father’s accomplishments thrown at your face anytime you try and watch a game. Deadbeats who leave when their sons are only six don’t make it onto Sportsnet. Kent shifts to turn the game off, but Jack catches his hand above the mouse-pad. 

Play has resumed, a Dallas player winning a face off, but the game is slow enough that commentators shift back to their previous subject. 

_“I guess the wait is on to see if his son Jack can live up to that number one jersey.”_

_“He is pulling amazing numbers for the Rimouski_ _Océanic_ _, they’re top in the QMJHL if I’m not mistaken.”_

_“Still needs to prove himself in the big boy league. How many times have we seen a hotshot juniors player tear through the league when they’re playing against teenagers only to become busts after the draft? Plus, he’s got that speedy winger boosting his numbers. What was his name,_ _Palsom_ _?”_

Kent’s small noise of hurt was lost in Jack launching himself off of the bed, throwing both the laptop and Kent’s embrace aside. He stormed out of the room. Through the thin walls Kent heard the bathroom door slam shut. 

“Fuck,” Kent muttered, disentangling himself from the duvet and chasing after Jack. When his path was blocked by the bathroom door he knocked, softly but with urgency, to no response. 

“C’mon Zimms, open up!” 

Still no answer. Kent tried the handle and the door swung silently open to reveal Jack crouching in the small space between the toilet and vanity. His knees were up by his chin and he was hyperventilating, blue eyes wide and not taking anything in. 

“Oh shit, Zimms, hey Zimms, can you hear me?” Kent fell down on his knees in front of Jack. He reached out with his hands but hesitated, not sure if touching Jack in this state would make things better or worse. 

“Toiletry bag. Under, under the sink. Pills,” Jack managed to gasp out, tears starting to run down his cheeks.

Kent scrambled over, knocking over cleaning products and rolls of toilet paper in his search. Finally he found what he was looking for and unscrewed the lid to spare Jack’s shaking hands. Jack took the bottle and tossed back some pills with a practiced gulp. The bottle and remaining pills were dropped on the floor. 

Kent knelt in front of Jack in the long minutes which followed. He ran a hand back and forth over Jack’s thigh in an attempt to be soothing. Gradually Jack’s breathing started to even out. His head ducked low, refusing to look Kent in the eye. 

“What was-” Kent cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you okay?” 

Still not meeting Kent’s gaze, Jack picked up Kent’s hand in his own and started nervously fiddling with his best friend’s slim fingers. 

“Trainer sent me to a sports psychologist. Said that they’re panic attacks.”

Silence stretched out for a beat as Kent waited for Jack to continue. 

“I have anxiety. That’s what the pills are for.” 

Kent withdrew his hand from Jack’s grip and used it to tilt Jack’s chin up. Looking into Jack’s red rimmed eyes his mouth was choked full on all the things he wanted to say. _It’ll be okay. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We can manage this. This changes nothing._ _Zimms_ _. The team will be fine. You’re still our captain. I’m scared too. I think I love you._

_I love you._

Instead, brow furrowed and jaw set, Kent pulled him into a bruising kiss. With a hand bracketing either side of Jack’s face Kent could feel him gently shaking through his palms. Kent kissed him for a moment longer before pulling away, nudging his forehead gently into Jack’s. 

“You and me,” is all his tongue could push out, hoping it carried everything else with it. He pulled the larger boy into his lap as best he could and held him on the cold bathroom tiles. They sat that way for a long time, holding each other's shirts with white knuckled grips, the only comfort they knew. 

* * *

_(Pills and vomit and why is it always the goddamn bathroom and calling 911 and blue lips and-_

_Zimms?_ _)_

* * *

There was once a time where Kent Parson would have done anything for Jack Zimmerman. Given up everything. Watching Jack hoist up what should have been his Stanley Cup on a grainy screen deep in the bowels of the T-Mobile arena while a trainer fastened a splint onto his wrist, Kent tried to remember what that was like.

The sweat drenching his dark home jersey had cooled down providing a nice excuse for his shaking, not that the trainer working on his fracture pointed it out. If the Aces had done it, secured a third championship but the first one on home ice, the cheering would have been loud enough to rumble through the arena and into the night air, adding to the cacophony of honking cars and neon outside in the city he had called home for over ten years now.

Instead, a six-foot four defender clad in Falconer colours had boarded Kent late in the third. His snapped wrist denied him both the chance to score a game six equaliser and lead his team through one last handshake line for the season. A sob crawled out of his throat as he thought about his boys sitting in the locker room, the weight of an entire city’s worth of failed dreams on their shoulders.

The athletic trainer mistook his murmur for pain tried to be gentler as he wrapped up the wrist. His glower also lessened.

“See? I told you there was no point going back onto the ice. I mean, maybe if there was more time left I could have strapped it up, but…”

At Kent’s lack of response the trainer fell silent. Experience had told Kent that he wouldn’t have been able to return to the ice but that hadn’t stopped him from yelling about it all the way from the tunnel to the bed he was currently sitting on in the trainer’s room.

On screen the cup was still being passed around, currently the winger who had sunk a sweet wrister in game three was taking his lap. The camera kept cutting back to Jack, flushed with joy and C on his jersey. Perhaps the operator remembered what had happened the first time Jack won and wanted to catch another historic shot for news channels to display 24/7 and punters to rip apart. Jack was conspicuously alone, mobs of teammates notwithstanding, but Kent didn’t allow himself to speculate, instead letting the throbbing waves of pain radiate out from his wrist and through his whole body as he stared blankly at the monitor.

“There, that should keep you comfortable enough when we go get x-rays.”

At Kent’s continued listlessness the trainer became concerned, raising Kent’s chin so he could examine his pupils.

“Did you hit your end on the boards? Maybe on the ice when you went down?”

Kent tried to answer, cleared his throat, and attempted again. “No, my head’s fine. I’m fine.”

The trainer looked over his shoulder at the footage on the tv and sighed, but he was too used to athletes to press the issue any further.

......

Hours later, Kent was finally alone standing in the entrance way to his apartment with a fresh cast on his right wrist and a blister pack of pain killers. He finally let himself exhale, feeling as if his ribs were caving in on lungs as he did so. Kit waddled over with her tail high in the air and started weaving in between his legs. As if triggered by the touch Kent’s back hit the door and he slid down onto the floor in a crumpled heap. Kit jumped onto his lap and Kent drew up knees and slung his good arm around her, encaging Kit in a tight hug.

“It’s been a fucking decade, sweetheart. I know I’m stupid you don’t need to tell me.”

Kent dug his fingers into the thick mane of fur at her neck, rubbing at the spot she could never reach when meticulously grooming herself. Kit’s purrs rumbled softly through his chest even as the tears he had been holding in since the trainer’s room tracked down his cheeks and landed in her fur. Sometimes Kent thought he didn’t deserve something as good as Kit, but he was never not grateful to have her in her life, furballs on limited edition sponsorship sneakers included.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Kent pulled away from Kit long enough to read the string of messages left by his alternate and promptly slide his phone across his floorboards all the way to the other side of the room.

**swoopity doop:** _u ok parse?_

**swoopity doop:** _was a tuff one sucks to lose in our barn eh_

**swoopity doop:** _hows ur arm?_

**swoopity doop:** _refs voicemail must be fuckign full after all those missed calls_

**swoopity doop:** _gonna fucking kill murphy when we see falcs next szn dw bro_

As well meaning as Swoops was Kent didn’t have the energy to be a good captain right now, to reassure his friend that he was fine and that they would win in next year. All Kent could think about was how this whole game, this whole series, had felt wrong in a way that hockey wasn’t supposed to. Kent was only steady when playing, and to have that certainty ripped away from him left him dangerously off kilter.

It wasn’t _fair_ , was the problem. Kent had lost playoff series before. Won more. It wasn’t even Jack’s first time having his name engraved in a cup. No, the problem was that in the quiet moments in between games and parties and practise, when it was just Kent lying on Jack’s chest listening to his heartbeat he had whispered to Jack dreams of being the deadliest duo in the league, of hoisting the cup together.

The problem was that the most dangerous lies are those that even the teller believes to be true and now Jack was partying it up somewhere in the sinful depths of Kent’s own city with teammates that aren’t him and Kent was sitting on the floor. Probably smothering his cat with how tight he was clutching her.

“Tomorrow. I’ll get my shit together tomorrow.” Kent whispered deep into Kit’s fur.

* * *

Two weeks later and Kent was most of the way fine again, which he thought was pretty good considering the broken wrist must’ve slowed things down to some extent.

This meant that the cardboard box he had to sign for with the sender _Jack Zimmerman_ written in careful script had about the same effect as a kick to the stomach.

“What now. Literally what the fuck now.”

Kent brought the package into his lounge and set it on the coffee table as if it was a bomb about to go off. Blast not coming, Kent was left staring bewildered at the box. On the couch Kit shifted in her sleep onto her back with four legs in the air, completely unaware of the strife Kent was currently in.

Kent resisted the urge to panic dial Swoops and took a deep breath. The man would’ve just suggested they take the box into the desert, soak it in lighter fluid and light it up. This would’ve been carthartic, however Kent was curious as to what was inside.

“Here goes nothing, I guess.”

Pulling out his keys, Kent slit open the packing tape with the jagged edge of his apartment key and opened the box. On top was a note, folded in half but with the indents of handwriting visible through the printer paper. Kent opened the note. His hands shook as he scanned penmanship ripped straight from the dark corners of his brain, all small letters and sharp angles like it was in the margins of Kent’s exercise books spelling out plays and notes and questions.

_Kent,_

_I’m guessing it would have been more courteous to give you a heads up that I was sending this so sorry about that. I didn’t know if you had changed your number since the last time we talked._

_I’m not sure if you had already heard but my boyfriend ~~Bitty~~ Eric and I broke up in the last few months. We, well, I’ve been waiting for the season to be over to properly go through everything in the house to sort out the last of whose is whose and I came across these things in the basement. I think Mama may have snuck it into the house during her latest round of ‘declutter by sending things across the border for my son in Providence to store instead.’ Haha. _

_Anyway it’s a bunch of old things of yours. You might just want to throw it all out, I don’t know, but figured the choice was up to you._

_I’m sorry about your wrist, by the way. I know Murpho didn’t mean to catch you at that angle but it must suck to go down that time in the game. It was a tough series, you guys definitely made us work for it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see an Aces repeat with how you played. Can’t help but thinking of how it was supposed to be me and you though. Would’ve really loved to pass the cup to you one day._

_Anyway, guess I’ll catch you next time we play._

_Jack._

To Kent’s credit, when he dropped the letter, walked into the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of wine that he normally has around for Swoops’ girlfriend Lynne, he didn’t immediately scull the whole thing. Instead, roughly a glass worth in his system and bottle still in hand, he returned to the box.

Kent looked at Kit.

“Do you think if I do more charity work shit like this won’t happen anymore? Like, karma or whatever?”

Kit remained firmly unconscious, whiskers twitching slightly in her sleep. Kent huffed and turned his attention back to the box. He dumped the bottle onto the coffee table and drew the first item out.

It was a puck, the shape immediately recognisable in his hand. Kent twisted it so he could read what was scribbled in marker on the tape around the outside edge.

_PARSER 1 st QMJHL HATTY 2/3_

Kent could still remember getting that hat trick so clearly in his mind. Rimouski had been behind in a game against then top of the league Rouyn-Noranda Huskies, before Kent had slammed in two in the second and one in the third to get them the win. Jack had assisted on each of the goals and Kent had lent against him the entire bus ride home, mostly in his lap and thrumming with energy. Kent had wondered at the time if he would ever he happier than he was at that moment.

Also seared into his memory is the party at Siggs’ place after, an overager who had fed Kent a steady supply of alcohol all night in honour of his achievements. Jack never did get that vomit stain out of his t-shirt, but they had been laughing as they sat on the floor of Sigg’s laundry trying to scrub the stain out.

Per tradition their captain had given Kent the three pucks used in his hat trick, each neatly labeled, and Kent had feared the second one lost as a sacrifice to the moving gods years ago. Kent ran a thumb over the smooth black rubber, feeling every divot, before placing it on the rug he was sitting on and seeing what was next.

At first Kent was confused about why Jack would think that he would potentially want an old receipt, the letters most of the way faded and ancient grease stains lending a vaguely translucent quality to the various fingerprints. Then he read the order; jumbo poutine to share, soda, coffee. There had been few places where Kent had been able to reliably tempt Jack into having a cheat meal and this one particular hole in the wall poutine joint had been one of them. Whenever Kent couldn’t get Jack out of his head a reliable solution was a carb heavy concoction of fries, cheese curd and gravy.

This receipt in particular was special. Kent had vowed that he would get it framed one day as it was the receipt for their meal the first time Kent had been approached and asked for an autograph. Nowadays Kent couldn’t leave his apartment without chancing some fan or another brandishing a sharpie and whatever convenient item they had on hand, but at the time it had made him feel like he was something other than some poser from New York thinking he could actually make it surrounded by the cream of the Canadian hockey crop.

Swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, Kent reached for the bottle of wine and took another swig. He could still burn the box, get rid of it and whatever reminders still lay inside of it. He didn’t know how many more he could take. He normally kept such a tight seal on all memories associated with his time in the Q, but his old things combined with the recent series had everything rushing to the forefront of his mind.

Next was a hoodie. Rimouski blue because nothing was easy, and butter soft from repeated washes. Kent whimpered softly then drew it over his head. His fingers caught easily at the cuffs, stretched out and thin from where he would always fiddle with them. With the hood drawn up Kent could almost pretend he could smell his old billet house. The lemon cleaning product his billet Mom preferred. Old pine of the dinner table. Faint funk from a pile of shoes that contained that of too many teenage boys.

Despite having bulked up as much as his small frame allowed during his time in the NHL, the hoodie remained large on him. On the sleeve was not a 90, or even a 1, but the 31 of their starting goalie in Kent’s first year in major juniors. Kent had been given it one particularly brutally cold roadie when their starter had joked that Kent needed to put on more mass not just to improve his game but to survive his first Canadian winter. Through Kent’s two years he would scarcely be seen without the hoodie. It was easier to remember that the team would always have his back when the evidence of it was sewn into his sleeve.

The last time he had seen this hoodie it had been covered in vomit and Alicia Zimmerman had offered to take it home and wash it.

_(why isn’t Jack moving and vomit sinking into the grout and pale hands and sweaty hair and)_

Kent sat up on the couch, putting distance between himself and the box, twisting around before he was lying down with his head’s next to Kit’s.

“What do I do, baby?”

Kit lent into Kent’s warmth but didn’t answer. Undeterred, Kent noses deeper into her soft fur. There was really only one person he wanted to talk to anyway. Kent eyed up his phone from where it sat on the table, but resisted the urge to make a call. What would he even say? _Hey, thanks for getting in contact, its only been ten years? Fuck you for bringing up all of these memories I thought I was over you by now? I hope you drop the cup on your head?_

Kent managed to wrest his attention away from likely disaster, but only by diverting it back to the box. He drew out the last item. It was a thickly padded envelope, held shut by a piece of masking tape. Initially he thought it was another letter however when he opened it a stack of photos fell onto the floor. Picking each up was like being struck by bird shot, a hundred small moments in time hitting him at once.

The time he caught a flock of Canadian geese flying in V formation.

First group outing with his Rimouski teammates, at the small diner down the road from the rink.

Himself shaking hands with their coach at an end of year dinner accepting the position of alternate captain.

A shot of the whole team on the bus, all blurry motion and boisterous laughter.

His teenaged face squeezed up against his billet sister’s in an off-center selfie.

Jack curled up on the sofa reading from a textbook for a class he had already finished.

Jack bound up in a toque and scarf from when they went skating outside when it was snowing.

Jack looking bored next to Bad Bob on a coach as his father loudly gestures about some story or another that he’d already heard a hundred times.

Jack and Kent streaking up the ice, immortalised in a Polaroid forever.

Jack bare chested on a bed, pretending to look annoyed at a grinning Kent looking up at him.

Jack.

Jack.

Jack.

* * *

**Kenny:** _i dont know if u changed ur number but i didnt_

**Kenny:** _still not convinced it was the cleanest of hits but live and let live or w/e doc says arm should be ready to break some more scoring records by the start of next season_

**Kenny:** _thanks for my shit back_

* * *

**Zimms:** _You’re welcome. Didn’t know what was in the box but it was labelled as yours. Sorry it took so long to get to you._

**Kenny:** _just a bnuch of shit from the q_

**Kenny:** _remember the time we bleached ourr hair for playoffs??? i think i had forgotten how bad that shit looked_

**Zimms:** _Haha. Yeah I remember. Can’t argue with tradition though._

**Kenny:** _psssh tradition my ass. u just wanted frosted tips to complete the boyband look u were rocking admit it zimmerman_

* * *

**Kenny:** _hey those drills were sick thanks dude was going crazy being on the ice but not being able to stick handle_

**Zimms:** _All good. I remember how frustrated I was Iast year when I busted my thumb._

**Zimms:** _How’s Kit?_

**Kenny:** _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

**Kenny:** _today i caught her drinking out of the toilet it was the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen_

**Kenny:** _[image attached]_

**Zimms:** _Haha. Awww._

* * *

**Zimms:** _I’m up to episode 17. If they don’t get together I swear to God Parson._

**Kenny:** _hahaha patience young padawan_

* * *

**Kenny:** _kinda forgot to say this but congrats on the cup_

**Kenny:** _u earned it buddy_

**Kenny:** _aces r def taking it next year tho_

**Zimms:** _Thanks Kenny._

* * *

**Zimms:** _Hey are you in NY for the summer yet?_

**Kenny:** _yah_

**Kenny:** _why?_

**Kenny:** _r u planning a hit job so falcs can repeat??????_

**Kenny:** _jack_

**Zimms:** _In the area for endorsement stuff. Think it would be okay if I swung round and saw you one day?_

* * *

The last time Kent had seen Jack Zimmerman it was watching him win a cup in the Aces’ barn while a trainer worked on his broken wrist. He didn’t know if this was more or less painful, seeing Jack through his doorway standing awkwardly in his off season uniform of jeans which managed to be tight on his built frame and a faded Habs hat pulled low over his eyes.

They both stood silently for a few moments.

“Err, can I come in?”

Kent jerked to the side to let him through.

“Shit, course, ah come on in.” He watched Jack toe off his sneakers and line them up neatly by the door. “Flight okay?”

“Yeah it was fine. Found a new podcast so time passed quick.”

Kent didn’t know what to now that they were both standing in is hallway. The last time they were in a room alone together had ended with Kent throwing verbal daggers at Jack over his shoulder as he left, caught up in a web of anger and betrayal and want. That they had been overheard by some new blonde boy who ended up being Jack’s boyfriend had made him even worse.

Right. Time to be an adult he guessed.

“Look man, I’m sorry-”

“Kent I’m sorry about-”

A strangled laugh left Kent as he stared at the floor.

“Guess we can’t even get our apologies right, eh?” Jack said softly, slipping his hands into his pockets where Kent could no longer see them fidget.

“I’ll go first then?” Kent looked back up at Jack for confirmation before continuing. “I’m sorry about coming to Samwell. Both times. You had made it clear that you didn’t want to see me and I didn’t take my head outta my ass long enough to respect that. And what I said at that party…”

Kent’s throat closed over, hardly able to get the words out.

“I knew what would hurt you the most. That’s why I said what I said. Of course your Dad is proud of you, he always has been and always will be. I shouldn’t have fucking said what I did I was just angry and stupid and-”

Jack stepped forward and placed a hand on Kent’s elbow, interrupting his racing flow of words.

“It’s okay. What you said hurt but I knew even then, deep down, that you were just lashing out.” Jack huffed out a rough laugh. “You’ve been that way for as long as I’ve known you, chirps sharper than your skate edges. And yeah, I didn’t want you at Samwell, but that was because I knew that if I saw you all I would want was a past that’s long gone.”

Kent watched as Jack’s jaw clenched, struggling to form the words that he needed to say and Kent needed to hear.

“It’s why I cut you off. You were a reminder of everything I had screwed up and didn’t think I would ever have again. Hockey and, uh, and us. It was easier to just pretend it hadn’t happened and try to start again with a clean slate. This wasn’t fair to you though. It’s what I needed but I’m not sorry for doing what I need to do to get better but I will always be sorry for how it hurt you.”

Tears had gathered in Jack’s red-rimmed eyes. His hand was still at Kent’s elbow. Kent reached out too, balling his fist in the front of Jack’s t-shirt as he continued.

“I thought getting hockey back would be enough. Achieving everything we always said we would. Bitty could tell it wasn’t enough though,” Jack wiped away at the tears which had started running down his face. “Said he could tell I wasn’t giving him my whole heart because I was still waiting for something I had tried to let go of years ago. It wasn’t fair to him or me to try and make us work.”

Kent was crying now too. He pushed and pulled at Jack’s t-shirt, gently rocking him on his heels backwards and forwards.

“Don’t say something you don’t mean. Don’t do that to me.”

Jack smiled through his tears. “I can’t expect you to do anything, Kenny. For you to have been waiting all these years for something that you had no reason to expect to happen. But,” his breath hitched, “but it’s always been me and you. And I kinda think for me it always will be.”

Kent laughed wetly. “Fucking hell Zimms. I gave you my heart when I was sixteen, it’s always been you and me and it always will be and I don’t care what form that takes.”

Jack opened his mouth to object but Kent kept talking.

“No. Listen to me. I don’t care if all we are is liney’s or off season texting buddies or friends or opposing captains. You’re it for me. ” Kent lent in close to Jack, closing his eyes and breathing the same air.

“But if this means I can get even one more kiss-”

Jack interrupted Kent by surging forward and kissing him, deeply but gently. The pair stood in Kent’s hallway clutching at each other with the desperation of a decades worth of distance. Kent ran his thumb over Jack’s cheekbone as Jack ran his hand down to the small of Kent’s back whilst simultaneously running his tongue over Kent’s teeth. One of them moaned quietly, a soft sound that was swallowed amidst the heat.

Even as they pulled away they didn’t separate, noses still pressing together as they breathed heavily.

“One kiss is setting the bar a bit low, Kenny.” Jack punctuated his words with a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I think we’re owed a few more than that.”

Kent laughed brightly and pulled Jack into another. Jack hummed into Kent’s mouth and slid a hand under his shirt to run his fingers over the soft skin at his side.

“I guess this makes us more than just opposing captains, eh?” Jack chirped, and then Kent lightly smacked him on the shoulder.

“Don’t think this means the Aces are going to go easier on you now, it’s my turn for a cup this season.”

Jack considered that. “You know, it’s not quite raising it together, but I guess winning it seperately does solve the issue of who was going to get it first and who would have to be passed it.”

“Don’t forget who has their name engraved on it more. If by some freak trade we were to win it together I would be presented with it. Seniority and all that.”

Jack bit Kent’s bottom lip and they lost the afternoon in each other.

* * *

“You and me.”

“Me and you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it. Special shout out to my giftee, hope you liked it, and the KPBB mods who are amazing (sorry you had do deal with my dumb ass not even being to upload it properly rip third times the charm).
> 
> And finally yes I did use a 1D lyric as a title, I am sorry but not sorry enough to change it.


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